


The Quick

by OldboyJensen



Series: Los Protectores [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A sort of prologue to the "Los Protectores" main story line, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jesse On the Run, Violent Death, Wakes & Funerals, do i have to tag nudity if it's just casual, the aftermath of the swiss explosion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8597824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldboyJensen/pseuds/OldboyJensen
Summary: There's always someone who gets left behind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by conversations with HardGarbage (who's work you should check out if you haven't) who I bounced ideas off of and was a great support through the process. Chapter 2 will be out eventually, but I make no solid prediction as to when that will be. Thank you all for your support in advance!

          How is it that liminal spaces are the only ones left these days? How is it that the only place a cockroach can be safe is with others of his kind? An old motel on the outskirts Dallas held the answer and the body of the man most suited to empathize with those unfairly infamous arthropods. Jesse Adakai McCree stood naked in the steam of a bathroom too small for a man half his size. The threadbare towel in his hands had been soaked before it even touched his skin. McCree dropped it to the moldy tiles in disgust. Either he’d gotten soft or these dumps had gotten even worse in his absence. More rust stains and water damage. More brave roaches. Like the one perched on the edge of the sink bowl.

         The little refugee twitched its antennae as the big hairy one shuffled over and squinted himself into existence. Licking a finger, big roach McCree rubbed a clear spot out of the fog on the mirror. The sudden movement startled his little buddy back down the drain. Enough that only the tips of those noted antennae peeked from around the stopper, anyway. McCree ignored it and ran his thumb over his beard. Shrubby.

_McCree, are you_ trying _to look like a pendejo?_

        Jesse snorted. Why was it that that man’s voice was clearer than anyone else’s? Why couldn’t he have his mom’s softer disapproval? Wait… scratch that. No. It was better to hear Jefe. Made it feel like Jesse was still a part of the crew. Could pretend he was just deep undercover that way.

_You’ve got to look reliable. Nobody’s going to hire you looking like you’ve been in the Rockies for five years._

        “Well, ain’t nobody hirin’ anyhow. Don’t matter if I look like a bum. Long as I look like me, best I can do is order in and watch Young’n Restless re-runs.”

         He could almost _feel_ the glare on the back of his neck. A bit of a chill in the lingering sauna.

_What have I told you about hiding out in the open,_ mijo _?_

       “Yeah well-“

_First place they’re gonna investigate is a shit hole like this. You know that._

        “Least there are a lot of shit holes like this. Gonna take a while to narrow it down.”

        McCree squirted a dollop of Barbasol into his palm and worked it into a nice even lather over his steam-stung mug. Gabe was right… even if he was just a consciously crafted figment of Jesse’s imagination. Damn. He missed the old bastard. Maybe once all the infighting bullshit blew over Jesse could seek him out. If the bounty got lifted.  Hell, even if it didn’t. Two covert soldiers can find some way to catch up without one of em getting caught. If they couldn’t that’d just be sad.

       “Guess you’re feelin optimistic today, huh bud?” McCree murmured to his reflection as he tapped the shaving cream off his disposable razor, “Careful, might jinx yourself.”

        He didn’t believe in jinxes.

* * *

 

       “The reports are coming in slowly-it is still uncertain what exactly happened here, but the emergency response teams are doing admirable work.”

        More bad news. Tinny announcer voices filtered in from the ancient Holovision in the bedroom. Something prickled the skin at the base of Jesse’s neck, and he shivered. It would help to find something to dry off with. Asking the help desk was out of the question after his last faux pas with the young clerk. She’d stopped by last night asking if he had plans for dinner which of course he didn’t, but he shouldn’t have told her that. Had to fake a migraine to get out of that one. No way was he going to put himself in her path intentionally unless absolutely necessary.

        Still, he hated being cold and wet. He imagined lounging out in the sun buck naked and grinned. At least if somebody found him like that, he’d have the last laugh as they dragged his ass off to the UN. Sure he might rot in prison or get a bullet in the head, but whoever nabbed him would have to live with that image seared into their brain.

         Probably a better idea to just dig through his duffel for something that still had some wear left.

         “The numbers of recovered wounded keep growing with the last account at fifty-seven, nine of whom were pronounced dead at Zu—”

          “C’mon, there’s gotta be clean underwear somewhere…”

          McCree sniffed a pair of briefs, shrugged, and pulled them on. He’d have to get some tide packets at a corner store or something. Maybe buy surplus and get some of the old safe houses restocked.

         “-Ten civilian casualties including Watchpoint Custodial staff.”

          Jesse froze. One arm stuck through the sleeve of his flannel, he slowly turned to face the Holovision.

          “Zurich general hospital currently reports thirty-four bodies as yet identified, but the number of victims still unaccounted for is estimated to be over sixty. In the twelve hours since the explosion, volunteers from the surrounding community have been literally pouring in to help with recovery efforts. Organizing the hospital’s efforts is the acclaimed master surgeon and Overwatch member, Dr. Angela Ziegler. Reinhardt Wilhelm has also been on the forefront of—”

         The video feed panned to what Jesse could only guess was supposed to be HQ. What had… no. No it couldn’t be his ho- couldn’t be HQ. No way. There was only rubble. Rubble of the insignia. That giant gaudy concrete sculpture that had been smacked on the Watch point public entrance was on the ground and cracked right down the middle. What was it doing there? It should be back up on the wall. Where was the wall…

        The motel floor shifted more than usual, and Jesse found himself seated on the edge of the bed.

        “Among those still unaccounted for are Strike Commander Morrison who was believed to have been on site, however, it is not certain that—”

        Oh god. Jack’s uncomfortable stage grin was pasted into view. Jesse could pinpoint the exact day and time that picture had been taken. Knew what he’d had for breakfast.

        The reporter stopped talking and put a hand to her ear. Time stopped. The hand dropped back to her side. Even through the screen, her breathing was visibly ragged.

       “This. Just in. The recovery team has found… convincing evidence… of Commander Morrison… having been present at the time of the explosion. “

       Wanted fugitive Jesse McCree saw the same video feed as hundreds of thousands of people. Over the next few days, millions would see the playback, see the old crusader holding the charred and bloody jacket gingerly as a baby, see the volunteers remove their hats as he passed, see the indifferent hard gleam of the sun striking the famous, now badly tarnished, lapel. They wouldn’t see the busted shot-gun cradled in the crook of Reinhardt’s arm. Wouldn’t see the shreds of black fabric blown to pieces and protected from the wind by a huge and gentle fist.

        Static.

        Something skittered and scratched inside the walls. Jesse’s face itched. He blinked. Static. The Holovision was all static.

        He didn’t remember trying to turn it off.

        That itching. On its own, Jesse’s arm lifted his hand to his chin. Thumb to beard. The shaving cream was still there. Crusty. His hand dropped back down. Another blink. He stood. He sat back down. It was dark. Somehow it was dark despite the natural light that should have been coming from the thin, filmy drapes. Jesse stood and let his legs guide him to the window. The sun was gone. The sky was moving to purple. Immune to the world outside their own subsistence, a flock of starlings danced in the distance over the Denny’s parking lot.

        He'd taught him how to recognize birds without binoculars. He'd taught him to use chopsticks, to speak Japanese, to survive in the stifling bureaucracy of the military. He was….

       Past tense.

       Jesse felt himself breathing more and more. Something was shaking somewhere. Maybe above him, maybe inside. He found himself pacing and standing, pacing and standing. Whatever was living in the walls was still scuttling about. A young boy’s screams played like a broken record in the back of his brain, scraping against his skull. She was bleeding on the street, arms held him back. Screaming. It was too quiet. He wanted to scream. His throat was stitched tight.

       Jesse found himself standing in the bathroom doorway, the Holovision at his shoulder. A wind had stirred up outside, and the whistling snapped something. Pivoting to square up with the wall, Jesse McCree bashed his face against the sheetrock.

       His nose took the force, crunched left slightly, and began to ooze blood into his moustache.

       No tears. Static.

      "Cry, goddammit,” Jesse rasped, his fist pounding gently against the wall as he eased his forehead into the dent he had made, “why won’t you cry?”

       His chin itched in response. Blood and shaving cream were crusting together, and the static of the Holovision only aggravated McCree’s everything.

       Letting free a shaky sigh, Jesse gradually turned back to the stupid contraption and flicked the switch to full power.

       Jack Morrison’s funeral would be held in three days’ time at Arlington National Cemetery. McCree listened to the talking heads as he duly dug through his bag for anything he could use. It was the Jack Morrison hour. Probably would be for a long time. Jesse bit his right wrist to keep the hand from shaking. Jack… a good man. Couldn’t be was. Never could be. Even if they were burying his coat, he would still _be_. Millions of memories would make damn sure of that.

       The same millions who didn’t announce Reye’s funeral date. Jesse managed to catch it on the tickertape along with the other names and faces that were falling into past tense. Three days’ time. Arlington cemetery. Same time as Jack’s.

        Jesse braced himself back to standing and made his way to the bathroom. The morning’s cockroach was joined by a few family members all converged in conference on the toilet rim. Jesse watched them for a moment, then grabbed the less grungy washcloth. Helped along by aggressive rubbing, blood, crusty and new, flushed away down the sink with the remnants of the shaving cream. Breathing through his mouth, Jesse Adakai McCree squirted a fresh, much larger, dollop of Barbasol into his palm. The face in the mirror looked so tired.

      “Time to get to work,” he sighed to the roaches.

       Five pairs of antennae twitched in response.


End file.
